Home
by o0-flyinghigh-0o
Summary: Two part story, first part is set between Feed and Deadline, about two weeks after Shaun moved into his first apartment. Shaun is attempting to come to terms with this new place and a world devoid of Georgia. How can you forge a 'home' when the person who made your home a home is gone? Second part to be set after Blackout. T for language, tw: discussion of suicide.


**Home: A Story In Two Parts**

The first part is set between Feed and Deadline, about two weeks after Shaun moved into his first apartment. Shaun is attempting to come to terms with this new place and a world devoid of Georgia. How can you forge a 'home' when the person who made your home a home is gone?

I don't own anything. But I would love to hear what you think.

Her body slumped over the keyboard. Blood everywhere. Blood dripping down the walls of the van. Her blood. Slowly drying. The weight of the gun in my hand. I can hear the echo of her last words. _SHOOT ME SHAUN SHOOT ME NOW._ Hear the gun go off. Smell the gunpowder. And blood. So much blood. Assaulting all of my senses. And she's dead. Dead.

My eyes shoot open. My fists are clenched. Breathe in. Breathe out. I want to be sick.

'Every fucking time.' I mutter. I slowly push myself up, till my back is resting against the wall. I reach out for the half glass of coke which is somewhere on the floor near my mattress. There's barely a mouthful left, which it was a good because what there was did not help my rolling stomach. Warm, flat, and, as always, sickly sweet.

'You need a better way to get your caffeine, George. I don't know if I can keep drinking this shit.'

_If you slept you might not need so much caffeine._

'Yeah, really not interested at the moment.'

_You have to sleep sometime, Shaun. You need to rest._

'Don't wanna close my eyes.'

She sighs, but doesn't bother continuing the argument. It's one we've had before, and she always loses in the end. Mostly 'cause she doesn't bother pushing it too much. Even the craziest parts of my mind don't want to relive that.

I stare at the wall for a moment, trying to make out the peeling paint in the next to non-existent light before giving up and rolling out of bed.

I skip the light switch and stumble into the kitchen. Fresh coke is marginally less disgusting. The light of the fridge startles me. I start to apologise to George, and before cutting myself off. George's eyes don't bother her anymore. One of the benefits of being just a voice in my head. One of the benefits of being dead. I slam the fridge shut. My fist adds another dent to its already battered door.

I take a moment to find my way to my computer, up against the far side of the room, and after almost tripping over a pile of boxes, manage to trip over the chair. I've been here two weeks, and still haven't really moved in. I keep saying I'll unpack the boxes tomorrow, that I'll get used to the room tomorrow. But it all feels too much like moving on, and that's probably the point, but that's not something I'm interested in doing tomorrow. Or any day.

_I'm not going to go away if you unpack some of your boxes, Shaun. You don't have to move on, just let everyone else think you are._

'If I move in here, then this becomes my home. I can't have a home without you in it.'

_Then it won't be a home. It'll just look like one._

'And I suppose you'll be here with me anyway. Like you are now.'

_But I'm not here now, Shaun. I'm dead._

'Don't say that.'

_But it's true._

'Doesn't mean I want reminding.'

She goes quiet as I wake up the computer, it's glow lighting up the room. I click into the inbox, scanning for something from Dave or Alaric. Or for anything regarding Tate. Instead I find the endless slew of mourners, and Beck and Mahir badgering me about the site. I ignore them all.

I click over to the notes George and Dave and Alaric compiled, the proof that blew Tate's conspiracy wide open, the story that cost Georgia her life. I could probably recite the whole thing back to front by now, but it's all I have, so I keep looking for something I've missed. Something that'll lead me to the fuckers Tate was working with, and the bastards that took advantage of Buffy before killing both her and my sister.

'What if there's nothing else here because there's just nothing else?'

I didn't need to talk aloud to speak to the voice in the back of my head. I shouldn't. But here, in the darkened room, hunched over a computer, hearing my George answer back, I could almost pretend she really was here with me.

_You were the one who said Tate was too stupid to be responsible for the whole thing._

'Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I'm looking for something when it's just not there.'

Maybe you need more evidence.

'But we don't have any more evidence, George. This is it. And I can't do anyfuckingthing with it!' I ran a hand through my hair, collapsing back into the chair. 'I can't do this. I can't do this. I just want to be with you. I miss you so much it hurts. All the fucking time. Can't I just let someone else take care of it?'

_I already died for this story Shaun. Can't you live for it? Make sure it's finished properly?_

'The continual reminders that you are in fact dead are not giving your voice any more weight. You got Tate. You got him good. Your last post went viral. Mahir is more than capable. What do you want me for? Why the hell can't I just blow my brains out and rest in peace?'

_I need you to see this through. Mahir can tell the story, but you need to make sure they pay._

She sounded sad, almost resigned. I wondered whether she was regretting that I couldn't come join her now, or that I almost certainly wouldn't survive this story long.

'Fuck, can't even figure out what my own subconscious is thinking. I'm gone, George. I've gone off the deep end. And I don't want to come back, I don't want to get better without you. This story is newsie stuff anyway, I'm useless. You don't want me to make them pay.'

_So don't tell the story. Be the story. Be there at the end holding a gun, make sure they go the same way as Tate. Make sure they pay for what they did to me. What they did to us._

'No. No, they won't get away it.' The ghost of a smile appears on my face, 'Irwins have always been good at hunting monsters.'

_And you were the best. There's no small amount of pride in her tone, a hint of smugness as well._

'So, this is home then? At least for now? We finally got a place of our own George, and you're not here to see it.'

She doesn't answer me.

I run my eyes back over the room. Small and cramped and filled with boxes. A laugh escapes. Bitter, and broken, and harsh.

'This isn't home, this is a joke. Home is with you. Always with you.'

_Soon, my love. But first you have work to do._

I nod slowly, before turning back to the computer. First I had to make those fuckers pay. Then I could go home.


End file.
